At the eastern exit of the Miyun Mountain Pass, the terrain abruptly narrowed, slender as a maiden’s waist. Xie Xie relied on this natural advantage to fend off wave after wave of frenzied assaults from the Northern Mang cavalry.
Five hundred elite suicide riders specially drawn from the Longxiang Army had already been annihilated. Along with over twelve hundred riders from the Zhongtan unit who had charged through the pass, their corpses—both men and horses—piled up at the exit, forming a natural barricade half a zhang high. Layer upon layer of bodies, blood flowing thick and slick, created a grotesque and terrifying sight.
This was perhaps the most unconventional “anti-cavalry formation” in the history of warfare. Regardless of the outcome, this battle would undoubtedly be recorded in the annals of history.
The Fengxiang and Linyao cavalry units on the flanks had initially suffered lighter losses. But as the wall of corpses grew taller, the relentless Northern Mang vanguard cavalry had no choice but to abandon frontal breakthroughs and shift their focus to the sides, attempting to carve a path for their main forces.
Had Xie Xie not commandeered all the crossbows and horse bows from Cao Wei’s ten thousand riders, along with the ample supply of arrows carried by auxiliary horses—enough to unleash volleys of concentrated fire at the Northern Mang cavalry pouring out of the pass—the fearless elite troops of the Zhongtan unit would have surely breached their defenses. Once the Northern Mang cavalry had fully deployed their battle lines outside the pass, allowing the Zhong family’s elite riders to spearhead the assault, the result would have been an unequivocal massacre.
Xie Xie’s cavalry was a motley crew, their overall combat prowess unremarkable even within the Liuzhou region, far from comparable to Cao Wei’s elite border riders from Liangzhou. The only seasoned veterans among them—the five hundred riders of the Longxiang Army—had already fallen in battle, leaving Xie Xie in a perilous position where retreat was not an option. His crescent-shaped defensive line was so fragile that any breach exploited by the Northern Mang cavalry would lead to a catastrophic collapse. This had nothing to do with the courage of the Liuzhou youths or the two flanking cavalry units. On the battlefield, victory often hinged on sheer willpower—once morale broke, defeat was inevitable.
Fortunately, Xie Xie demonstrated the exceptional talent befitting one of the “Twin Jewels of Western Chu” at this critical juncture. Like a meticulous tailor, he patched every gap with precision, deploying troops flawlessly time and again. If “performing grand rituals in a snail’s shell” was originally a derogatory phrase, Xie Xie had turned it into a compliment—transforming decay into magic. A thousand Liuzhou refugees, all strong-armed and dismounted, wielded spears alongside six hundred temporarily reassigned riders armed with light crossbows and horse bows. Under Xie Xie’s command, these sixteen hundred men had plugged seven potential breaches in their crumbling defenses, preventing the Northern Mang cavalry from flooding out like a bursting dam. Each near-disaster was a battle of wits between Xie Xie and the Northern Mang commander Zhongtan, who repeatedly concealed the true strength of his elite guards among ordinary riders, only to be foiled by Xie Xie’s foresight.
Xie Xie had achieved what military strategists revered most—”commanding troops as effortlessly as moving one’s own arms.” This required not only an encyclopedic grasp of every battlefield detail—remaining arrows, the toll of sustained archery on his men’s strength, the depth of flank formations—but also an unerring understanding of the enemy’s movements and flawless troop rotations that maintained defensive integrity while preserving stamina for a prolonged fight.
Xie Xie’s command was impeccable, but the cost was stark: five messenger riders had lost their voices from shouting orders. Though Xie Xie himself had not fought on the front lines, his lips were cracked, his face pale.
Yet his eyes remained clear and bright, shining with unwavering resolve.
This young general, who had been in the northwestern frontier for less than half a year, had already earned the respect of all his Liangzhou cavalry.
Some men were born for the battlefield, destined to leave an indelible mark in the bloodstained pages of history.
Ye Baikui, the “Armor of the Spring and Autumn,” had been one. Chen Zhubao, the “White-Clad War Saint,” remained one. And Xie Xie would be one too.
In fact, Zhongtan, the Northern Mang commander who had halted his horse beneath the cliffs inside the Miyun Pass, had witnessed the brutal, rapid carnage of this battle. Though he yearned to personally behead the young Liangzhou commander, he couldn’t help but admire the man’s tactics. As the rising star of the Zhong family and the eldest son of the great general Zhong Shentong, Zhongtan was nothing like his martial uncle Zhong Liang. From a young age, his ambitions lay not in the jianghu but on the Liang-Mang border, where he and his father had pored over maps late into the night. Once, the proud and arrogant Zhong Shentong confided in his son: “On the Liang-Mang battlefield, men like Yan Wenluan of Northern Liang or Yang Yuanzan of our dynasty are undoubtedly great generals, capable of holding their own. But compared to the likes of Chen Zhubao, Dong Zhuo, or Chu Lushan, they still fall short. To judge whether a commander can become a pillar of the state, look at two things: first, whether he can flawlessly execute both offense and defense in a single battle; second, whether in a war that decides a nation’s fate, he can achieve the ideal of ‘the more troops, the better.’ With a thousand men, he must slay fifteen hundred; with a hundred thousand, he must slay two hundred thousand. And when he commands a million iron riders—that is when he holds the world in his hands.”
A Zhong family deputy, his armor splattered with blood, rode up to Zhongtan after leaving the battlefield outside the pass. Snapping off an arrow embedded in his armor, he panted, “Young Master, give me five hundred more suicide riders, and I’ll break the Northern Liang formation!”
Zhongtan shook his head, gazing at the distant battlefield. “Our Zhong family riders are already nearly wiped out.”
The deputy, who had personally fought in the thick of battle twice, looked around in shock, realizing the staggering losses among their elite cavalry. In this engagement, Zhongtan had held nothing back, throwing the Zhong family riders into the vanguard without hesitation. Had it not been for their ruthless determination, the five hundred elite Longxiang riders of Northern Liang would not have fallen first. The twelve hundred Northern Mang corpses piled alongside them were all Zhong family private troops. The Northern Mang had come agonizingly close to victory, but the five hundred Longxiang suicide riders had sacrificed their own horses to block the Zhong family’s advance. Subsequent attempts by Zhongtan to breach the lines with two to three hundred elite riders each time were thwarted by the Liangzhou commander.
The deputy growled, “Anywhere else, even five thousand more Liangzhou riders wouldn’t be enough to stop us!”
Zhongtan smiled bitterly. “Yes. But unfortunately, we’re stuck at the end of the Miyun Pass, unable to advance or retreat.”
The deputy, who had never considered retreat, frowned. “Young Master, why can’t we retreat? Besides, this battle is far from over. Winning will be hard—we might lose three or four thousand more men—but we’re certainly not retreating!”
Zhongtan glanced back before turning to the pass. “Even you know that with the forces Northern Liang has outside the pass, they’re doomed. So why is their commander still fighting to the death? From the Miyun Pass to Fengxiang and Linyao, the terrain is flat and ideal for cavalry. Why are they holding this place at all costs? Is it just to trade lives?”
The deputy’s heart skipped a beat as he looked at the narrow path behind their cavalry. “Young Master, didn’t the big shots in our Western Capital say the Liuzhou campaign was insignificant? If Northern Liang has deployed so many troops here, who’s defending the Liangzhou border?”
Zhongtan took a deep breath, laughing at himself. “It wasn’t until I encountered this force that I realized Northern Liang has gone mad—choosing Liuzhou as the decisive battleground for the second Liang-Mang war.”
Pointing his blade at the pass exit, Zhongtan grinned savagely. “No matter. Once we break out of the Miyun Pass, Northern Liang’s gamble will end in disaster!”
He barked an order: “All Zhong family riders, follow me into the fray!”
Two eager battalion commanders clasped their fists in acknowledgment.
The deputy hesitated. “Young Master, are you really charging in yourself?”
Zhongtan laughed boldly. “I want to meet that Liangzhou commander face to face!”
His instincts as the Northern Mang’s Xianabo told him that killing that Liangzhou general would be worth more than slaying ten thousand of his riders.
※※※
Inside the Miyun Pass, ten thousand riders thundered forward.
At their head was Cao Wei. His ten thousand had already changed horses multiple times, leaving exhausted mounts strewn along the pass. Many warhorses foamed at the mouth; hundreds had collapsed and died.
Cao Wei’s stretched-out formation was a sight that would have drawn curses from any other commander—a reckless, disorderly charge that defied conventional tactics.
Ten thousand riders surged east like a raging river.
At this moment, the Miyun Pass was their Guangling River.
As steeds faltered, their riders—skilled horsemen all—could only steer them aside to avoid obstructing the advance, then remount and press on.
Thankfully, most of their spears, bows, and crossbows had been handed over to Xie Xie’s troops, lightening the load for Cao Wei’s auxiliary horses.
Cao Wei muttered to himself, “Xie Xie, you bastard, don’t you dare make me collect your corpse! If you can’t hold out and let those Northern Mang savages ambush us outside the pass—with those damned Luotuo Mountain monks eating our dust behind us—my ten thousand will be buried in this godforsaken place!”
As they raced on, Cao Wei felt every breath roar in his ears, louder than the hoofbeats.
His men were at their limits.
Too exhausted for repeated charges.
Cao Wei was betting that Xie Xie could not only hold the pass exit but also cripple Zhongtan’s main force.
It was madness.
In his heart, Cao Wei whispered: Xie Xie, I know it’s impossible. But damn it—you’re one of the Twin Jewels of Western Chu!
As they neared the eastern end of the pass, Cao Wei—who had been muttering, “Give me a sign, just a sign”—suddenly burst into laughter, nearly crying with relief.
Hearing the distant clash of battle, he reined in sharply and roared, “Change horses! Arm up!”
Then he chuckled. “Screw changing horses now!”
His ten thousand riders gradually halted, donned armor, and drew blades.
Far from the Central Plains, in the Western Regions, this seemingly miraculous force under Cao Wei paused—a Guangling River frozen in time.
Then the flood surged east once more.
Cao Wei raised his Liang blade, charging ahead with a hoarse cry: “Kill!”
※※※
The Battle of Miyun Pass.
Later hailed as the greatest cavalry engagement since the Spring and Autumn Era.
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